


Copper

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Time, Mentions of Character Death, Possessive Behavior, The beginning of the end (of sanity)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: She tastes of copper.





	Copper

**Author's Note:**

> To be considered a prequel to "Fettered", this time from Brahms' POV.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is not a healthy relationship. Please do not try at home.

Greta smells of salt and sweat. Copper ( _blood_ ) coats her lips.

She cut her mouth. He frowns. Slides a hand into her dark, damp, hair and pulls her closer. Suckles lightly at the bleeding mark in the soft swell of lower lip. She whimpers. It is not a pained sound.

(Brahms knows the sound of pain. He remembers it well: engrained on his memory with the same intensity as childhood delights. He will not say it haunts his dreams, for such would imply guilt. There is no guilt. The others had to die. Their deaths paved the way for her, for Greta, _his_ Greta, to come and stay. Forever.)

Her skin is soft. Impossibly soft. The doll is ( _was_ ) a cheap imitation of reality. He tried, valiantly, but there can be no imitating the way she feels right now. Soft. Warm. Alive. So very _alive_. Brown hair trickles down atop his chest; her hands glide under his shirt. He groans, loudly. The kind of sound a man makes in the heat of wanting, of desire and lust. A child does not know this urge.

She shivers. Presses closer. She isn’t afraid anymore.

It’s a surprise, when she suddenly sits upright and leaves a rush of cold air in place of the hot press of bodies. He opens his mouth, prepared to speak and protest without kindness. Then he stops. Watches her grab at hems and pull, hard, until clothing is ripped free and—

He groans, again; inch by inch more, skin becomes his to behold. She is beautiful. Curves and smooth lines. He must touch.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to touch and she needs to be touched. He sees it in her eyes. Hears it in the sharp breaths expelling hot from parted, bleeding, rose-red lips. A world apart from the shy, gentle-tongued, demure American who first graced his family threshold, who he watched from shadows and coveted in darkness, Greta claws at his shirt, sweater, waistband. She kisses him again.

(It is a world apart, to kiss and be kissed without the mask. To feel her fingertips along the raw lines of burn scars and savor the soft rub of her lips on his. So very different. _Glorious._ )

“Brahms.” She breathes, low against his neck. The thrill, the rush, is almost too much to bear. His name. _His_ name. Not Malcom. Not that vile man who came her, broke into their home, tried to steal her away. His. _His_ name is the one on her lips.

He rolls, without warning. Throws an arm around her waist and catches her half a second before losing her over the mattress edge. This bed is for a child. Was his bed twenty years ago, when he was a child and Mummy never let herself think of the days when he would no longer be the little boy in her arms. He is not a child. Greta is not a child. He is a man and she is a woman and this bed is not meant for them.

But it must make due, at least for now. They are too tangled in each other to move elsewhere.

“Don’t stop,” she gasps, but it’s _her_ hands running urgently over _his_ skin, pushing aside clothing she can’t, or won’t, physically remove. He growls, presses hips deep into hers. Hands clutch at the bedsheets, tighter, until he feels the seams rip. It feels good, to ruin something belonging to the boy. The boy took so much, took nearly everything—but the boy will not have Greta.

Greta is his.

Her legs wrap around him. Pull him closer. The skin is soft and smooth along her inner thighs, and between them—hot. Hot. Wet. He’s never felt anything like it. He growls again, louder, and pushes closer. Her nails scratch at him, at the shoulder blades. It stings. He likes the feel of it.

“Again.” he says, and pushes closer, deeper. She gasps. Moans, breathless. Her nails dig and raise blood. Pleasure, hot and fast, coats his veins; pools deep in his belly. His hips rock against her. Inside her. She takes him in impossibly deep. Like they were made for each other.

(They were. Greta was made for him. He knows it. She knows it too. She _must_ know.)

“Mine.” He whispers, into her neck. The bed creaks beneath: abused by frantic motions, ignored entirely. His hands swallow her hips, grasping tightly. She seems so fragile against him. Under him. Around him. Yet her grip is so strong. She clings to him, pulls him to her. She holds him like she could never hold the boy. “Mine.”

“Yours.”

He almost doesn’t hear her at first. Then he thinks he imagined the words. Mind playing tricks: giving him something he wants when it will never be his.

“Yours.” Greta whispers, louder; too loud to be ignored or dismissed. Her hands are deep in his hair. Tugging him back to her lips. She bites, just enough to convey a message even if he doesn’t know what the message is. Then her tongue slips inside his mouth, and he understands.

(She tastes of copper. Copper and, faintly, something sweet. But mostly copper.)

“Yours.” Again, an echoing whisper in his ear, warm on her breath. He growls; presses deeper, grasps at her until bruises are inevitable, rocks frantically into her heat. Headboard knocks into wall. He barely hears it. Only her voice is in his ears: a mantra of his name (his, only his) and breathless promises. Echoes of words once spoken to the boy, to a blank-eyed puppet bearing his names; now, vibrant in their intensity, fill the air between them. Each one settles deep: a scar buried between them, connecting them, marking them as one.

Forever.


End file.
